


Sunny-side-up or scrambled, Lieutenant?

by necroneol



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, hankcon but? only sorta?, idk all I know is that they love and care for each other ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 01:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17295380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necroneol/pseuds/necroneol
Summary: Connor is just trying to ensure Hank has three meals a day, is that really too much to ask?





	Sunny-side-up or scrambled, Lieutenant?

It wasn’t Hank’s favorite joint, but it would have to do. The lieutenant pulled over, parking himself in front of the only fast food place open at this hour, right next to the only convenience store open at this hour, and stepped out of his car. They had chased after a trail of clues all day, in hopes that they would catch a break in even one of their deviant cases, only to find each and every “lead” utterly useless. Hank was frustrated, and the late hour didn’t help his mood. Even Connor, oblivious as he was known to be, knew to tread lightly for the time being. Get Hank some food, even if it was poorly crafted and contained way too much cholesterol, and then get him home. That was his mission at the moment.

The android officer closed the passenger side door gently behind him, and followed Hank inside the brightly lit establishment. With old fashion checkered tiles and a faded primary color scheme, the restaurant had a charming atmosphere to it. A cheery looking android stood at the counter. It greeted the two men with a smile.

Before it could begin to ask for their order, let alone utter a simple polite greeting, Hank spoke. “I’d like a double cheeseburger, with an order of large fries. And an extra large soda.” Hank blinked as Connor shifted beside him wordlessly, and in some self conscious realization of his apparent shortness, grudgingly tacked on a “please.” With Connor around, Hank found himself ever so slightly more aware of the possibility that androids really could be more than just unfeeling machines. The guilt tacked onto this possibility lead him to be a little more aware of the way he addressed the things. He would never admit it aloud, obviously, but Connor had noticed.

The android nodded, and did not bother to turn to Connor. He was an android, too, and he had no need to consume food. In fact, he was fairly certain that with the sampling software in his system, “eating” may just turn out to be an uncomfortable, over-stimulating experience and nothing more. Hank turned away from the counter, and towards the furthest table in the back, right next to the large spanning window. Even after a day of business, it was spotless. Hank thought, _an android’s work,_ because no human could have that kind of everlasting dedication, and slid into the booth. Connor slid into the one just across from him.  
“You didn’t have to come with me, y’know. You could have just…gone wherever you go when we’re not doing shit together and gone to robot-sleep or something.” Hank sounded gruff, and Connor couldn’t tell if it was because he actually did want him to leave him be, or because he was worried about Connor’s well being and didn't want to drag him around uselessly. These days it was so hard to decipher which was which. Lieutenant Anderson certainly was an interesting character.

“How am I to know you would not just go home and fill up on alcohol and fall asleep on the floor again? I have to ensure you have a proper meal at least once a day. And actually sleep in your bed from time to time.” He would have liked to say at least three times a day, and fast food was not exactly a “proper meal” in his book, but it would do. Going into specifics may only irritate Hank. “As your partner, I—“

“Mmhm. Okay.” Hank turned his head to look out the window, at the dark streets, lit only here and there by tall white street lamps. Automated public service buses were still running, but other than that, the streets were dim and silent. Connor watched him from across the table curiously. He blinked hard, and commenced a scan, preparing to analyze Hank’s current state of being simply out of habit, but before he could process a single clue, he felt a hard jab under the table, at his shin. Connor raised his line of sight to meet Hank’s glowering gaze. “Will you stop scanning me for fun all the damn time, _please_?”

“I apologize, Lieutenant. I was only curious. You seem tired.”

“I’m fuckin’ frustrated,” Hank admitted, “We went in circles all day for nothing. I could have been at home.”

“Maybe tomorrow will be better.” Connor suggested, regarding Hank cautiously. He raised his head as a tired woman approached their table. She slid their tray onto their table, and handed Connor the XL styrofoam cup full of soda, before turning and trudging away.

“I’m surprised a human being is working this late, for a shit job like this,” Hank mused as he grabbed his tray and pulled it closer. He unwrapped the greasy plastic covering his burger, and took a large bite.

Connor had already analyzed the makeup of Hank’s burger, and, not surprisingly, found it chock full of unhealthy ingredients. He bit his tongue, however, and opted only to reply to Hank’s previous comment rather than scold him for his meal. “Most humans feel more comfortable eating something another human has prepared. I assume that woman merely cooks in the back, and an android or two assists with cleaning and service.”

“Huh.” Hank shoved a couple of fries in his mouth, and reached over his tray to take his drink from Connor, who had been holding it absent mindedly the whole time. “Can _you_ cook, Connor?”  
“I could download information on how to cook, and then I could cook, yes. I am a detective, though. Cooking is best left to the housekeeping and general family assistance androids.” Connor paused. “If…I were to learn how to prepare a meal, would you eat it?”

“Oh, uh,” Hank shrugged and shoved another clump of heavily salted fries in his mouth. As messy as he was, a fry fell from his lips, past his barely kempt beard, and into his lap. He didn't seem to notice. “I guess, I don’t know. I prefer just ordering stuff. I don’t like cooking, and waiting for good shit takes too long.”

  
Connor rebutted, “You wouldn’t have to cook, and I can work fast.”

Hank’s brow furrowed. He didn’t quite get was Connor was pushing at. “I guess, I don’t know,” he repeated, shrugging once more before finishing off his fries. Connor fell silent.

 

 

Hank rolled over in bed and groaned. Just outside his window, he heard the quiet talk of an automated taxi, thanking it’s passenger before departing quietly. At his feet, Sumo raised his head and huffed. Hank rolled over again, facing the window now, as was apparent by the weak, still golden early morning light hitting his eyelids. He blinked through bleary eyes, and reluctantly sat up. Hank scratched at his chest as he slowly peered over at his alarm clock, which was almost never used as an alarm, and just as rarely used as a clock. It was just now six in the morning. Hank laid back down. There was no way in hell he was getting up this early.

A steady knock at the front door insisted otherwise.

Hank tried and failed to suppress a growl. Sumo grumbled in agreement. Hank rolled out of bed and started out of his bedroom, down the very short hallway and into the front living area. He placed his calloused hand upon the doorknob. “If it’s Connor, I swear to God…”

“Oh, fuck me.” Hank went to close the door, and was stopped by the toe of a dress shoe placed firmly and calmly in the frame. “Speak of the fucking devil.”

“Good morning, Hank,” Connor offered one of his endearingly awkward sideways, half-smiles. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Did you sleep well?”

“What the shit are you doing here, _at my house_ , at six in the morning?” Hank asked, glaring through sleep crusted eyes at the android before him. He followed Connor into the kitchen and crossed his arms over his chest as he began to dig, without permission, through his cabinets and drawers.

Connor turned to the fridge, pulling it open and peering inside. “You really ought to restock your fridge, Hank. You barely have the essentials covered. And I do believe this milk expired a week ago.”

“You really ought to answer my question,” Hank shot back before easing himself into a chair at the small round kitchen table.

“I’m going to prepare you breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day, you know,” Connor shot Hank a look over his shoulder as he pulled a half empty carton of eggs from the fridge and set them upon the counter top. He brushed aside some unread letters, some trash, some empty snack packages, and grabbed a frying pan from the rack above the stove. He rinsed it in the sink, and placed it on the eye of the stove. Connor fired it up, grabbed some olive oil, and turned to face Hank. “I thought that maybe if you had some decent food, and three meals a day, you might feel a little better in your day to day life. Besides, you rarely ever come into work until noon, anyways. If you’re going to stay home, you might as well stay home and take care of yourself.”

Hank sighed, and put his cheek in his palm. “So this is what you meant last night.”

“Well, you put the idea into my head.” Connor admitted, turning back to the stove. He cracked an egg in the pan. A satisfying sizzling sound filled the little kitchen. Hank had to admit, it did smell pleasant. Like warmth and comfort and care. It was funny how one little frying egg could make you feel that way.

“Well…this is alright, I guess. But only if you make me coffee.” Hank sat upright abruptly, and pointed a finger threateningly. Connor was facing the toaster now, placing two pieces of stale white bread into the slots, and pushing the button to start. He glanced at Hank with a patient look. “And _only_ if you promise not to wake me up at six every day. Eight is just fine, thank you.”

Compromising was an integral part of Connor’s program, just as important as investigating and interrogation. And if all it took to gently whip Hank into shape was starting their newfound morning routine at eight AM rather than six, that was quite alright with him.He slid the egg, slick with oil, onto a little plate alongside buttered toast. Connor approached the table with a smile, toothy this time, and genuine as ever. He set the plate before his partner with a pleasant little laugh.

“It’s a deal, Lieutenant.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments and/or suggestions are greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading!


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